


Sleeping Sickness

by lellabeth



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Phil Needs a Hug, a little bit of angst then it just dissolves into pure fluff, clint will give him all the hugs, implied PTSD, love on the l, meet-cute kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-24 15:50:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3774499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lellabeth/pseuds/lellabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The guy’s hand on his back feels like a grappling hook finally bearing his weight after a thousand feet of freefall, like a tether holding true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping Sickness

**Author's Note:**

> loosely inspired by a tumblr prompt about taking a picture of someone on a train. Of course this is how it turned out, because I am shameless. Title from the song by City and Colour which fits this Phil too well.

Phil is constantly aware of his surroundings.

The ability to snap awake in a split-second is so deeply ingrained in his brain that he’s used to waking up multiple times a night, nerves fraught as his whole body locks down. Invariably it’s just some car alarm or police siren loud enough to filter through his bedroom window, but he still hasn’t tamped down the spike of adrenaline he feels any time it happens. He nearly shot a bullet into his lounge wall last year after falling asleep on the sofa and being startled by the click of the air conditioner turning on. It’d sounded like the pin being pulled from a grenade, the same sharp tick of metal, and he’d had the butt of his gun against his palm in less than three seconds.

His hands hadn’t stopped shaking that whole night.

So when he hears “Aw, phone, _no_ ,” and a beam of light flashes onto his face, it’s pure reflex that makes his hand shoot out and grab the object being pointed in his direction.

He blinks twice as his hand closes around skin-warmed plastic. He hears a strangled yelp and looks across to see a man with cheeks that are getting pinker by the millisecond and a mortified expression.

“Shit, dude, sorry. I was… well, uh, trying to take a picture I guess, and I didn— hey, are you okay?”

Phil is not okay, not even a little. All at once he remembers his last mission for the Rangers and an IED that had burned brighter than the sun and rained debris that felt like chunks of a star biting into his skin. He’d heard nothing, just felt the ground shake and turned to see the mouth of hell open up around the convoy that had just left base. He’d run over to try and clear the other car before anything could happen, but he was still what seemed like miles away when that one imploded.

Just like that, half the men under his command were dead, and Phil hasn’t known a solid night of sleep since.

“Woah, take some deep breaths, okay?” he hears, and there is a hand pressing firmly between his shoulder blades. Even through Phil’s blazer, it is warm enough to seep comfort into his bones.

And Phil knows he should be embarrassed, but it has been months since anyone but medical personnel touched him. He hasn’t slept properly in what feels like a lifetime and he’s so fucking tired he just fell asleep on the L, and he wants to cry and say he can’t remember the last time he felt okay was. The guy’s hand on his back feels like a grappling hook finally bearing his weight after a thousand feet of freefall, like a tether holding true.

“Sorry,” Phil rasps. He looks around but thankfully the car is empty this early in the morning. Only one person has to watch him crumble like this.

“No way, man. No need to apologize to the creepy dude taking pictures of you.”

Phil’s face scrunches up as he turns to face the man, and then he feels the breath get knocked from his chest. He sees a defined jawline and skin that’s blemished by several small scars, but he can’t focus on anything but the man’s eyes. They are like the grass that grows on the sides of the Afghan mountains during Fall, muted green giving way to golden brown around the edges.

The guy must realize he still has his hand on Phil’s back, because Phil can sense the second the tendons all tense at once.

“You were taking pictures of me?”

Now Phil can’t stare into those eyes because he’s too busy looking back at the color slowly blooming under the man’s skin again.

“My friend asked for some.”

Phil shakes his head. “Sorry, why would your friend want pictures of me?”

The guy removes his hand completely now, bringing it up to scratch the back of his neck. “Well, I’ve seen you before. On this line, I mean. I’ve seen you a lot, actually. And I like to look so I told my friend, obviously, and she told me I had to prove how cute you were or hold my silence on the subject forevermore. And oh, seriously, can you just ignore how creepy stalker some of that sounded?”

Phil doesn’t think he should be charmed. He is. There is something tingling deep inside his stomach, and it’s not nausea for once.

“You think I’m cute?”

“You couldn’t take pity on me and pretend you didn’t hear that? That would be the kind thing, you know. We can both pretend none of this ever happened and I’ll go on my merry way and stop spilling word vomit into your lap.”

Phil definitely should not be laughing.

He is.

This guy, this broad-shouldered guy with a face like that, is probably the most adorable thing Phil’s ever seen.

Phil tells him so.

He gets to watch as those eyes, they get real wide. He gets to watch them crinkle at the corners as the guy smiles and says his name is Clint. He gets to feel the heat of Clint’s body as the man scoots closer to him, gets to learn the imprint of Clint’s arm pressing into his own. He gets to roll the name Clint around in his mouth over and over, tasting each sound on his tongue.

When Phil’s stop comes up, he stays exactly where he is. He’s rewarded with Clint’s hand creeping carefully over to cover his own, calloused but featherlight.

They talk well into the morning, watching the sunrise through smeared windows. Clint doesn’t mention it when Phil’s eyes drift closed, just stares at the curve of eyelashes against Phil’s cheek and counts the freckles on his skin. He settles into his seat, Phil’s hand still in his, ignoring the sounds of commuters all around them.

Phil doesn’t stir once.

 


End file.
